


Spectre

by justonemore11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 23:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonemore11/pseuds/justonemore11
Summary: Mycroft and Greg set out to break up a smuggling ring, but they discover a ghost. And feelings for one another.





	1. Chapter 1

He was met at the entrance of the tube station by a black car with tinted windows. The driver, a non-descript man in a black suit of unremarkable cut, leaned out the window.

"Inspector Lestrade, Mr. Holmes requests a meeting."

"What, now? Before my first coffee?" The driver shrugged with a sheepish smile. "Right, just let me text a couple of put-upon underlings." Greg composed his text to Sally carefully, taking care to combine authority with contrition, and a hint of a promise of a frothy caffeinated beverage to come. He noted that although the car was flagrantly illegally parked in front of Westminster Tube, he didn't need to flash his warrant card even once; a mere stern look from the driver sent the yellow vested parking enforcement personnel scuttling.  


A minute later, Greg slid into the seat. A fresh copy of the Guardian awaited him. Mycroft, he knew, read a broad array of morning papers, including the Financial Times and Die Welt, so this copy was for Lestrade's personal benefit. It was his paper of choice, when he could bear to read the news.   


These days, he barely recognized the London he saw in the headlines. He found himself greeting the leaders of his garden variety theft rings as welcome old friends that he at least understood. They seemed as bewildered as he was by the turn of current events. 

"And just how are we supposed to arrange for fencing - er - commercial contacts on the Continent with all of these bleedin' border checks everywhere? It's restraint of commerce, is what it is. These pillocks who've never done a day's work have no regard for the small businessman." 

Greg was startled out of his reverie by their arrival at the entrance to the Churchill War Rooms. Greg rolled his eyes. This was melodramatic even by Holmesian standards. He exited the car, saw Anthea waiting by a door near the gift shop entrance, and followed her through wordlessly. She rapped on a door labeled "Building Engineer"

"Enter,"

Mycroft was seated at a desk in what was, in actuality, a janitorial closet. He was surrounded by four high resolution monitors on two sides, with a shelf full of pine scented cleaner bottles behind him. He smiled as Greg entered. 

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Good of you to come."

"I'm never sure that the summons is optional." Mycroft smiled blandly at this. "Your usual bunker being redecorated, then?"

"Fumigated," sighed Mycroft. The junior analysts are wont to leave chip wrappers lying about. Take a seat." Here, Mycroft motioned to a 40 liter drum of floor wax in the corner. Greg perched himself accordingly. "Well, Lestrade, I'll get right to the point. We have become aware of some attempts on the part of an organized crime ring from abroad to bribe local law enforcement in Norfolk to turn a blind eye to the odd boat pulling ashore without paperwork for the cargo."

"A bit unusual for you to get personally involved in cigarette tax stamps, isn't it?"

"It certainly would be, but I consider guns to be rather more worthy of my notice," sniffed Mycroft.

"And now you have my attention as well. When you say abroad -"

Mycroft waved a hand airily.

"We think we mean Belarus, but we might turn around tomorrow and find we mean Albania, Uzbekistan, or a group with rather tenuous affiliations. At any rate, our undercover officer has arranged a meeting at Raynham Hall." 

“Raynham? Really? I haven't heard that name for ages."

“You've heard of it? “

“Just that it’s haunted. Just like our Hadleigh Castle and Borley Rectory.”

Ah, well, you are from Essex, are you not?"

"No need to make that face. Yes, and Hadleigh and Borley were the stuff of legend. Course, it had all been debunked by the time I was in my youth."

"As long ago as that?"

"Oi, some respect for your elders. By the time I came along, they were mostly the sort of places where you went in on a dare, for a secret snog, or to have a few beers cadged off of someone's older brother. That, and Cash's Well, which is also rumored to be haunted."

"Something you knew first-hand?" Mycroft's tone was the usual one he reserved for banter, but Greg thought he could hear something else behind it.

"I do have an older brother," Greg said it quietly, with just a hint of a smile. Mycroft looked as if he had to stop himself from inquiring further, which he did.

"Ah, well. But we are digressing. Our travel will take us to Norfolk.”

“Right then, what's the plan?”

“What would you normally do?”

“Normally, I would tell my superiors the particulars, and then I'd be handed a list of at least three special task forces that I'd have to communicate with, one of which would get all of the credit for the operation."

"Ah. "

"I don't mind. Really, the fewer guns on the street, the safer it is for my people."

"Well, this will have to be handled with considerably greater finesse."

"Really? Why?"

Mycroft hesitated. Clearly, he was working out the best way to phrase something. Greg decided to just wait him out.

"Our inside, er, man needs to be safeguarded. I - believe me, this is a source of some embarrassment - don't really know whether we can trust all of our team. "

" Someone spilling the beans for cash, then"

"Or out of ideology. We don't know. Just, there have been items surrounding this operation that have been heard in quarters in which they have no business."

"So, you'll be handling the contact solo, then"

"In conjunction with our inside person."

" So, forgive me for being a bit slow, but why am I here? "

"You, Greg, are the cavalry, so to speak. " Mycroft gave him a weak smile, as if unsure as to how his humor would be received. "As I said - "

"You really can't trust your backup?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Ordinarily, we'd be having a full revetting of staff, with at least two levels of investigative tribunals, and all of that is in motion. In the meantime, the general sentiment is that we'd prefer not to lose the resources invested in this operation."

"You mean you wouldn’t."

Mycroft looked at his shoes.

"Naturally, mine is the opinion that counts. However, in this particular case, I feel an obligation to our operative. We shall of course issue you with a firearm."

" We’ll work that out on the day. I think I'm going to need more background..."

Mystify cleared his throat.

"Of course,” he said. "As far as the smugglers are concerned, I am the buyer for a deal brokered by our insider. The insider and I have a meeting with the local leader of the network, ostensibly to view a sample of the shipment. It is scheduled for the 31st."

"Halloween?" 

Mycroft sniffed.

"Superstition, plus an unhealthy dollop of American-inspired excess. Hardly relevant to us." 

"I take it you don't believe that ghosts walk, then?"

"If they do, I have some sharp words for every post war Prime Minister. "

Greg laughed.

"Alright. So, you have the meeting. I'll observe to make sure nothing goes pear shaped."

"You will also probably need to make an arrest. If the shipment is nearby, we will need to move to impound quickly"

"Who is we?"

" I have a Royal Navy cutter on standby. " 

"Course you do. So, you trust them, then. More than your own shop."

Mycroft sighed.

"They are, in the end, far more predictable personality types than the MI services. Deliberately by choice, as it happens."

"Wonder if you'd say that about Met police officers?"

"I wouldn't dare presume."

" Seems to me, you already have" As Mycroft looked at the floor, Greg laughed. " I'm just taking the mick, Holmes. Look, I'm flattered you chose me. It's a vote of confidence. So, I make an arrest, since you don't trust the local nick, or your own shop. Then, if the boat's nearby, you call in the Navy. Sounds very straightforward, and there are a million places it can go wrong. "

"Indeed. Perhaps we should make a list."

"Sounds as if you already have."

Mycroft smiled faintly. "Mmmm."

Greg wondered if this was some sort of test. Alright, he hadn't been much good at those in school, but he'd made short work of the police exams, which suited his practical nature.

"Well starting from the end and going backwards, there may be a lot of smugglers on the boat. Course, the Navy can probably handle them. Better discipline and all. So next step, finding the boat once we've made the arrest. " 

"Here, Lestrade, I had hoped your superior skill with, er, people might speed the suspect along- "

"Right, then a sympathetic ear. But would a gun smuggler go for my usual techniques that work on London's criminal classes?"

"I expect you'll find that they will, or you'll think of something, Greg. "

Greg? Was one of them dying? 

"In fact, I think you'll find this easier than most of our interrogators do. You are fundamentally decent, and organized crime doesn't expect that."

"God, both of the them must be dying. And what did it mean that Mycroft didn't consider his own interrogators to be decent? Anyway,

"Right, so we meet at Raynham. Or you do, With your man inside. "

"Just so."

“It's one of these stately homes, right? Plenty of nooks and crannies, so I should be able to hide myself effectively. I emerge to make the arrest. Do I also arrest your man?”

“Mmm. That would be for the best. "

"Got it. Which brings us back to the start of the operation. More to the point, West Raynham isn't exactly in the middle of London. It isn't even the middle of Watford. How do we arrive in a small place inconspicuously? We need to do a bit of planning on site beforehand. "

"Ah, yes." Here, Mycroft looked so abashed that Greg's internal alarm meter moved up to DefCon 4. “Well the local pub has rooms, well, a room, rather. "

Greg knew he should feel inconvenienced, perhaps slightly annoyed at the presumption. He wondered why, then, he felt something between exhilaration and blind panic. Composing his best noncommittal, entering-the-interrogation-room face, he said

"Right."

Mycroft went on quickly.

"Our arrival in a small place might indeed attract attention. If I then show up at a meeting with the – er -element, it would be best if you were thought to be - ah –“ 

" Arm candy? " Greg wasn't sure why he had said that aloud. 

"I was going to say surplus to requirement, but it amounts to the same thing. If you have any hesitation about this, Lestrade, we can of course pursue another strategy.”

“No, no. I’ve been undercover before.” His previous assignments hadn’t involved being literally under the covers with anyone, but that was the luck of the draw.  
Mycroft appeared somewhat relieved.

“My assistant will book the room.”

As Mycroft’s driver drove him back to the Yard, Greg began to wonder what he’d just agreed to. As nearly as he could tell, he had agreed to pretend to be Mycroft Holmes’ lover, arrive armed at a major meeting between the British Government and Organized Crime, and then single-handedly arrest said organized criminal. It seemed highly questionable, and yet reassuringly Holmesian. And as for pretending to be Mycroft’s kept man, that was far less disquieting than it probably should be. Greg wondered how Mycroft knew about his tastes in partners. Deduced it probably, like everything else the Holmes’ knew. Could he also tell Greg was quite curious about him and thought of him with, well, perhaps affection was the right word? No, wait, his nan would have said he found Mycroft endearing.  


With these distracting ideas, checking out a firearm, and studying maps of the Norfolk coast, by the time he headed to Mycroft’s place on October 29th, Greg hadn’t really given much thought to the fact that Raynham Hall was supposed to be haunted.  



	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t mind driving, if you want to work,” said Greg, tossing his bag in the back seat of Mycroft’s late model Audi, “I especially don’t mind driving this.” The look of relief on Mycroft’s face was palpable. Greg drove along in silence. They didn’t have far to go, but it was peak travel time on a weekday, so they were moving slowly through the capital’s bedroom communities, and Greg had to keep an eye on the traffic. Greg couldn’t help but notice the relative comfort of Mycroft’s car compared to his usual journeys in a panda with a deteriorating foam seat. When he did steal a single glance at Mycroft’s screen, he caught the heading

“To: Cable, J. Vincent.”

Right then.

They pulled into the car park for the local pub in the hamlet of West Raynham at around 9:00 pm. They were shown upstairs to a simple, but reasonably clean and spacious room. Greg set down their bags, as Mycroft settled his laptop on the desk. They both turned simultaneously to note the fact that there was only one bed.

“Right.”

“Ah.”

“Feeling peckish?” said Greg, feeling the sudden need to be somewhere that was not this room. 

“Yes, yes, let’s do that,” said Mycroft, hurriedly.

They went downstairs to the pub, and managed to squeeze into a table in the corner, although Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the plastic tablecloths. Greg ordered a grilled chicken platter, and a pint of the local lager. Mycroft ordered a bowl of tomato soup and a small salad. When the server offered him curly fries, he sent her scuttling with one look. 

“Now, the lass is only doing her job,” said Greg.

“Offering curly fries should not be anyone’s job,” said Mycroft decidedly.

Greg looked around. The pub was reasonably full. He supposed that Mycroft’s contact could be here now. He looked up and saw Mycroft surveilling the room, no doubt thinking the same thing, but probably already having…

“You found him, then,” Greg whispered. 

“Blond, heavy set, at the bar by the taps.”

Greg got up, ostensibly to use the gents’, so he could get a closer look. Damn, he noticed the bulge under the man’s coat from several feet away. He should have called in more favors the first time Mycroft mentioned guns. It was just so easy for things to take a turn for the worse; they could do with more back-up. He probably could have gotten more help, maybe not while keeping it quiet enough for Mycroft’s taste, though. 

He returned to the table. Mycroft had paid the bill. They got up to leave. As they passed the bar, Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft looked at him in surprise. Greg flicked his eyes toward the blond bruiser at the bar. Mycroft nodded. Greg thought he caught a brief hint of sadness in Mycroft’s eyes, but when Greg blinked, Mycroft was all business again. 

Greg unlocked the door and locked it behind them again.

“So tomorrow we reconnoiter the Hall. I think we should go together.”

“Agreed, it supports our cover and prevents the contact from deducing beforehand that the rendezvous is with me in particular.” 

Greg smiled slyly. 

“The – ah – website says that the Hall is available by invitation only.”

“That won’t be an issue.”

“Yeah, thought not. I’ll also need a room for the initial questioning. “

“Mmm. I have a promising alternative, there.”

“Good, good,” said Greg, knowing that they were both prolonging the inevitable moment here. Mycroft beat him to the punch.

“You may, of course, take the bed. Like my brother, I require little sleep. I have some work to do.”

“Mycroft, you have a full diary for the next two days. You need to be at your sharpest.” Mycroft regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Right, I know you don’t need to be at your peak to think circles around the rest of us, and I don’t mean t sound like your mum,” said Greg hastily.

“Let me assure you, Greg, that while I rather imagine you sound like your mother, you sound nothing at all like mine.”

“What I mean to say is,” Greg could hardly believe the words were leaving his mouth. “We could share. I’ve dossed down with other officers before,”

“Have you indeed?”

“Now who’s taking the mick? Look, stakeouts and undercover assignments often involve a lot of long hours with little space in the backs of panel vans. You make do with what you have. No one makes any bones about it. It’s just the job.”

“Just the job. Ah.”

Greg realized he’d put his foot in it. Again. Well, that was that.

“Alright then,” Mycroft said, almost defiantly, to Greg’s surprise.

“I like the left side. Also -“ said Greg, quietly. “I generally try to get out of things like this if the other officer is someone I don’t like.” With that, Greg swept into the bathroom with his shaving kit. Better to quit while he was ahead. Mycroft had changed by the time he returned. He wore navy pajamas that looked a bit thin for the autumn weather. Reddish chest hair with threads of gray peeked out from the v-neck collar. Mycroft was tapping on his laptop in bed. Greg wondered with a pang whether this was a nightly occurrence for Mycroft: working until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Greg, dressed in his usual cool weather pajamas of track suit trousers and an old band t-shirt, slid under the duvet. Mycroft glanced at him surreptitiously, but not so quickly that Greg didn’t notice. Greg set the alarm on his phone and set it on the bedside table. Mycroft coughed.

“I tend to rise early. I hope that I shan’t disturb you. “

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I find I wake early these days. Hard not to ruminate if you wake up.”

“Indeed.”

Greg shut off the reading lamp above his side of the bed. Mycroft did the same, after shutting down his laptop.

“Goodnight,’ said Greg, cautiously.

“Er – goodnight,” Mycroft replied.

Greg lay awake for a bit. Mycroft seemed to be awake also. His breathing was staccato, and Greg could feel a slight tension in the bedclothes, as if Mycroft had pulled them protectively around himself. 

“Feels a bit more like a Scout camping trip than a stakeout. Should I tell some ghost stories?”

Mycroft sniffed, but he felt the bedclothes relax a bit. 

“I was never a Scout.”

Greg laughed.

“No, I don’t imagine you were. Or Sherlock.”

Even Mycroft laughed softly.

“Mmm, no. Mummy could barely keep him in a boarding school. I spent quite a bit of time trying to find new schools in out of the way places where his reputation didn’t proceed him. “

“That why his French is so good?”

“And spoken with a Quebecois accent. Having to find a Scout group would have been a bridge too far. A shame really, he would have excelled at fire starting.”  
Greg laughed aloud again. He could feel the tension in the bedclothes subsiding.

“Feeling lucky I’m here with the civilized Holmes.”

“You might feel differently if we actually exchanged ghost stories, Greg. ‘Ghost’ has rather a different meaning in my profession.”

“Ah, right. ‘and the dictator was assassinated, and they all lived happily ever after.’ ” Greg could have sworn that Mycroft stifled a giggle. “Better skip straight to sleep. Goodnight for certain.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

This time, Greg heard Mycroft’s breathing even out slowly. He let himself drift off after that. 

The next morning, Greg woke as the sun began to dimly peek through the pub’s worn curtains. He had slept on his back, and in the night, Mycroft had moved closer to him so that his back was plastered against Greg’s side. Understandable. Greg had been right that the pajamas were a thin cotton, and the pub’s duvet was of the same vintage as the curtains. He’d just been seeking warmth. Rather nice, actually. Greg had always liked this bit of being in a relationship with someone: waking up curled together on a cold morning, the smell of stale aftershave comingling. It was intimate without being intimidating. Just easy. Greg looked at his phone. Alarm not due for half an hour. He could just lie here and feel  
the warmth of another person who…

The next time Greg woke, it was to Mycroft rising and heading for the bath. Too bad really. Greg waited a bit, and then gathered his things to swap places as Mycroft left the bath, his hair plastered against him from the shower. When Greg emerged, buttoning his shirt, Mycroft looked immaculate, and was just adjusting the pocket square he wore without irony. As Greg tied his tie, Mycroft said,

“May I?” He transformed Greg’s usual half-hearted four in hand into a perfect half-Windsor. Greg smiled at his reflection. 

“Better arm candy now, am I?”

“The tie is merely the cherry on top of the sundae.”

“Right, all of these food metaphors are making me hungry. I could do with the sort of fry-up this sort of pub is known for.”

They decided to walk to the Hall. It was a crisp fall day, if a bit overcast. Greg felt a strange spring in his step. It felt like a school trip. That was the only thing he could compare it to. He remembered the excitement. Getting out of neighborhood to see something new, something from a more exciting time. Getting away from parents’ prying eyes. Greg had always managed to charm the chaperoning teachers into letting him sit where he wanted, which was always next to his crush of the moment. It was a hopeful feeling, and Greg felt the same way now, as he and Mycroft made their way along a lane that led to the gardens. 

The grounds were extensive, and offered a number of places to hide. The rendezvous was to take place behind a stand of trees for extra cover. Greg had identified three different possible hiding places.

“I think perhaps behind the low wall on the right,” said Mycroft, reading his mind.

“That wall has been there for a good while,” said a voice behind them. Greg started. He turned to see a short, elderly figure dressed in what looked like a smoking jacket and a pair of plus fours, as if he’d just stepped off the set of a “Thin Man” movie. “Yes, a good while. It was built 400 years ago.”

“indeed,” said Mycroft attempting to sidle off.

“They locked her up, you know.” 

“Who,” said Greg.

“The Brown Lady. Having an affair of the heart, so they said,” the smaller man continued.

“All quite fascinating,” said Mycroft. “So sorry, we must dash.” He grabbed Greg by the arm, and pulled him down the path back toward the house. 

“He was just trying to be nice, Mycroft,” said Greg, laughing.

“I have my allotted quota of loquacious senior citizens every Christmas. I don’t feel the need to subject myself to more,” said Mycroft. “Besides the fact that we have more reconnaissance to do.” He dragged Greg back to the hotel, and got into the car. On the passenger side. Pretending to grumble, Greg sank into the smooth leather interior and turned the key in the ignition. 

“Where are we headed?” 

“Just out to the coast. To find you a room for your interrogation.”

“I think you mean, my gently persuasive questioning of a person of interest.”  


“Be that as it may. Head northeast.” They drove until they reached the coast. Greg spotted it. The Royal Navy cutter was keeping something of a low profile, not flying the standard.   


They had to walk down a narrow staircase on the side of the cliff in a stiff wind. The commander and his officers leapt to attention as Mycroft strode down the gangway and up to their command station. 

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?’ 

The commander saluted.

“Permission granted, Mr. Holmes.” As Mycroft nodded, the commander relaxed. “Alright, then, Sticky. Everything’s in good order for your little caper. Care for an afternoon pick me up?”

“Dartmouth changed you not one whit, Cedric, and 11 am is decidedly not the afternoon.”

“It’s afternoon somewhere,” said the commander as he led them down a narrow hallway to what must have been his office. He reached into a cupboard, and pulled out three glasses and a decanter. “You’ll take yours neat, Sticky. And you, er, - “

“Unpardonable of me. Greg, this is Commander Waite, of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

“As well as a sometime , slightly green, prefect under the watchful eye of Head Boy Holmes at Harrow. And you are - ”

“Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard,” Greg rarely bothered to give his rank. Once he said Scotland Yard, the person he was talking to was racking their brain to remember whether their car registration sticker was out of date.

“In addition to your help with the arrest, we’ll need a room to question a suspect.”

“Of course, but you can’t be to particular about the size.” He waved his hand, airily. “This counts as palatial digs on board, I’m afraid.”

“That might work a bit to our advantage. A little claustrophobia can go a long way in getting questions answered.” Greg then took a sip of what turned out to be the sort of scotch that said ‘My grandfather served this sort of thing in a study with leather chairs and an original Gainesborough on the wall.' “We’re glad of any help.”

Mycroft and the commander then spent some time going over the plan for retrieving the weapons cache. As they picked their way back up the cliff, Greg asked,

“Sticky?”

Mycroft sighed. 

“Most of my acquaintance in boarding school were only too happy to point out that I bear more than a passing resemblance to a stick. The double entendre of calling me ‘Sticky’ was also not lost on them.”

“Well you got the last laugh. They’re all probably sporting a Guinness gut at this point, and you’re still quite fit.”

“More probably a wine-induced wobble,” but Mycroft looked, well, if not pleased, much less uncomfortable.

As they arrived at the car, the little man they had seen at Raynham Hall was there, as if waiting for them.

“Busy gents, are you?”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft.

“Best to keep active, like yourself,” said Greg. The little man smiled, and walked off.

They ate lunch back at the pub, or rather, Greg ate, and Mycroft picked at a salad. Mycroft then went to meet with the inside man. Greg suggested accompanying him, but Mycroft seemed nervous about that, so Greg backed off. Left to his own devices, Greg began to worry. Was the “inside man” really trustworthy himself? Even if he was, was he being followed? Was Mycroft in danger now? Would he make a careless mistake, given his distaste for legwork? Greg shook himself. Mycroft was a genius, and his specialty was contingency planning. 

That evening, Greg suggested they venture a couple of villages over to a country inn advertised in the brochure rack at the pub. At first, Mycroft demurred.

“We have to eat somewhere.” Mycroft looked as if he might dispute that notion, but thought better of it. On the way there, Greg began to worry. What if this place wasn’t up to Mycroft’s standards? Ah well, he’d put his foot in it enough these last few days, he began to feel like it might be best to throw caution to the winds.  


The inn was a beautiful old stone building, with a peaked roof.  


“Probably seventeenth century,” said Mycroft admiringly.

They were shown to their candle-lit table by a quiet young maître d’, who slipped away after presenting the wine list and menus. The wood paneling and the low lighting made for a peaceful ambiance, although Greg self-consciously found he had to resort to his reading glasses to decipher the menu. After deciding on the trout almandine, he looked up to find Mycroft staring at him. 

“I think I’ll –“ he hesitated. “What have you chosen?” 

Mycroft was startled back into the present, as if he’d been somewhere far away. 

“Ah, the trout.”

“I’m having that too.”

When their orders had been taken, Greg remarked,  
“Peaceful here. I love London, but sometimes it’s nice to get away from – “

“Prying eyes,” finished Mycroft. 

“Yeah, that’s exactly it. Someone always needs something from me, whether it’s my superiors or my team. I get a lot of high profile cases, so I have to make a lot of statements to the press. Which I am pants at, by the way, but the Met keeps asking me to make them.”

“But you know why they do that.”

“Sadism?”

Mycroft ticked off the points on his fingers.

“Estuary accent plus an excellent vocabulary, gray hair, calm demeanor, can’t be riled by Sherlock – suggests a self-made man with the associated competence. Three sentences from you Greg, and everyone is certain things are going to be alright. Your superiors know this. When they issue a statement , it’s often about avoiding panic. No one feels panicked when you are here, Greg.”

Greg looked up at Mycroft. He seemed completely sincere, and he had clearly thought about this. A lot.  
The waiter set two plates in front of them. Greg didn’t move at first. He had realized, though, that Mycroft was more likely to eat if he did. He picked up his fork. He began to cautiously work his way around. 

“It’s nice that this is a bit of a break here. I don’t seem to get to take much time off, not as much as I’m supposed to,” he said.

“Nor I,” responded Mycroft.

“Don’t know what I’d do if I did, though. Maybe visit some cousins.“ He held his breath. This was familiar territory, the slight flirtation, testing to see where he stood. 

“Nor I. My cousins are to be avoided as assiduously as my immediate family.”

“No one to make demands on your time, then,” said Greg softly.

“No,“ said Mycroft, looking into Greg’s eyes.

As they finished their fish, Greg decided this was it. He’d risk it. It was worth it. 

“I don’t much feel like dessert,” he said quietly, but firmly.

Mycroft signaled for the bill.

They got into the car, into the seats that they seemed to have permanently adopted. Greg turned to Mycroft. He reached out and put his hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck and pulled him closer. The kiss was not long, but it was very intense, enough for Greg to feel that he had evidence of his welcome. They drove back to the pub in silence. They slowly ascended the stairs to their room. Greg closed the door of their room firmly behind them. As Mycroft began to remove his tie, Greg leaned over and put his hand on Mycroft’s, whispering in his ear, “Let me.” Greg removed his own jacket, and then began unfastening Mycroft’s tie, shirt, and anything else with buttons or fasteners. He slid Mycroft’s shirt off of his shoulders. Mycroft shivered as Greg began kissing him. Greg realized though that perhaps that wasn’t the effects of his own animal magnetism. He pushed Mycroft back onto the bed and bundled him under the duvet. Greg stripped down to his boxers and wrapped himself around the new most significant person in his life. 

It all felt right: the way the sinewy muscles in Mycroft’s shoulders felt under his hands, the way they fit with their chests pressed together, the endearments that Mycroft whispered in his ear, in a tone he never thought he’d hear from another living soul. They didn’t linger long; Mycroft had had a long day, and the newness of everything lent extra adrenalin which left them both profoundly spent. Its didn’t matter. Greg knew there would be other occasions. Mycroft let out a barely perceptible sigh as he relaxed onto Greg. His skin finally felt warm to the touch, Greg noted. It was his last thought before falling asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg awoke the next morning feeling remarkably pleasant for someone who was committed to spending his evening taking down a ring of weapons smugglers. Mycroft was wrapped around him, and he felt even more content than he had yesterday morning. He told himself he would allow ten minutes just to relax and enjoy himself. He only had about seven, as Mycroft began to stir.

“Mmhh. Thank you, Greg, for a magnificent evening. I – ah – I hope you enjoyed it too.”

“Could do with a few more evenings like that, to be honest.” 

Mycroft was silent. Greg worried that he had said too much, but then he realized it would be much worse to say too little. He waited.

“Have them you shall,” said Mycroft, embracing him tightly. “However,”

“We’re here on Her Majesty’s business.”

“So to speak.” Mycroft rose and took his lithe form into the bath.

They spent the best part of the morning trying to avoid the blond man. After an unsatisfying fast food lunch at a service stop down the motorway, they ordered large coffees and did a timeline run-through of the plan.

“Greg, there is something you must know about the inside man. Well, several things.”

“Alright, then.”

“First, the inside man is not a man.”

“Fair enough.”

“You will also recognize this person, but, of course –“

“Mycroft, I’m not wet behind the ears.”

“Of course.”

They took a roundabout way to Raynham Hall as it began to get dark, and parked a mile down the road. Greg checked and double checked his weapon. He was a bit nervous for Mycroft, but they had worked out the eventualities. Plus, the Navy was out there, somewhere. Alright, rather far away actually, but they wouldn’t just disappear.  


Greg took up his position behind a low wall near the stand of trees. Mycroft stood in the shadows of the grove. Even dressed casually, his profile was striking. Greg wondered why he had left field work behind. A story for another time, maybe.

A short figure appeared beside Mycroft. She murmured something to him, but Greg couldn’t hear what it was. The inside man, then. Er, inside woman. The clouds that had been blocking the moon moved just then, brightening the grove of trees. Greg nearly gasped, when he saw Molly Hooper next to Mycroft. Since when had Molly become a field operative? What was Mycroft thinking, using her?

Greg had no time to ruminate. The blond man emerged from the car park, two armed associates flanking him. The extra lads were not part of the original plan. Greg readied his weapon, watching as Myrcoft stepped forward. 

“You needn’t have brought the insurance. I intend to deal honorably.” Mycroft tapped his satchel. 

“That makes one of us,” the blond man said, reaching for the bag. “I don’t think we’ll be needing the likes of you.” His henchmen moved in. Greg lurched forward; he couldn’t take all three, so he placed himself in front of the blond man, demanding his weapon, and hoping the element of surprise was on his side. One of the other men aimed at Molly.   


“Grass, “ he said with contempt, and fired. Molly ducked and rolled, dodging both shots. Maybe Mycroft knew what he was doing after all. Greg kicked the man’s gun arm, causing him to cry out and drop the weapon. The third man went for Mycroft. Greg couldn’t move fast enough.

“Now, now, mustn’t make a ruckus.” The little man in tweed appeared from behind the wall where Greg had been standing earlier. The distraction was enough to slow the third man. Greg just hurled himself at the gunman, and took him down. Mycroft picked up the gun, and with that, he or Greg had all of the weapons. They had to wait a bit for the Navy to come in an unmarked car; best to avoid the locals.

Somehow, Cedric found separate rooms for all three perpetrators. Greg went back and forth, concentrating on the man who had gone after Molly; he was clearly the least able to control his own outbursts. Greg collected enough tidbits to convince the blond man that a confession was probably the lesser of many evils.  


It was fairly efficient, but by the time Greg had radioed the Yard to collect the gunrunners, and seen the weapons cache found, inventoried, and sent to the specialist contraband squad, it was three a.m.

Back at the pub, Greg settled into bed. Mycroft helped him out of his shirt and into a large icepack, as the bruising on his shoulder was swelling.  


Something else was bothering Greg. He decided to voice it, even though saying it aloud made it more real than he cared to admit. 

“Ah, where did the little man come from.”

“Willesden, apparently.”

“Come again?”

“I, too, was curious about his ability to appear at the oddest moments, especially one that was so very opportune for us. I asked Kiley.”

“Kiley?”

“The bartender. It turns out that he loves the Hall and the story of the Brown Lady so much, that when he retired from the intercity bus service, he moved here. Acts as a self-appointed tour guide.”

“But the ancient outfit.”

“Oxfam shop. Kiley distinctly remembers when he found it. He talked of nothing else for weeks.” 

“You know Mycroft, I was skeptical of your use of Molly, but she really held her own out there. I don’t have many constables capable of moves like that.”  


“Indeed.” He kissed Greg’s cheek, and removed the icepack from Greg’s shoulder. 

“Sleep now. I’ll drive us back


	4. Epilogue

Molly Hooper sat in her apartment, idly stroking a tabby cat seated on the arm of her overstuffed chair.

“Xerxes, you can’t be hungry again. You were just fed. “ Sherlock appeared behind her. “Honestly, you have to stop doing that.” 

He smiled slightly.

“You are the least affected by it, though.”

Molly made a face.

“Sherlock, when you went away, you could have stayed away. For good. Yet, you came back.”

“Moriarty’s network was my unfinished business. Then, when I was without it, I saw what I had been missing. I couldn’t, in the end, just leave him.”

“Despite the fact that he saw you jump. A jump no man could have survived.”

“So it seems.” 

Molly continued stroking the cat, thoughtfully.

“And your ability to come and go quickly, that hasn’t changed.”

“Parlor tricks that I mastered at age seven; they seem magical to those who don’t observe. But in answer to the question you almost asked, I won’t go. I won’t leave him, not now.” 

Molly continued to look out the window. Sherlock coughed.

“But you? Why did you return here?”

“What is my unfinished business?” she turned to him. “I suppose you think I’ll say you.” She smiled mischievously, “In fact you hope I’ll say you.”

“God, even in your current state, you’re as bad as Lestrade. You all want to be like me, like Mycroft, but you none of you have the discipline for it. To check and double check every time.” Sherlock turned to look at her, eyes narrowed. “But you, as you are now, can now see things I can never hope to. You can move just about anywhere. So why back here?”

Molly thought for a bit.

” When it happened, it was so sudden. They wheeled Jim – I mean, Moriarty, into the morgue. They thought he was dead, so they left me to it. When he woke up, well, I was the only place to vent his anger, and it all happened so fast. “

“And they buried you, thinking it was him. When I saw him, later in Serbia, I knew something had gone wrong,” he said softly. “That you must have been harmed in some way.”

“But you disposed of him.”

“I did. Thoroughly this time. I must admit to having been confused when everyone kept speaking about you as if everything was normal. As if you had never left.”

“I hadn’t really. Not as far as any of them were concerned. They didn’t see me on a daily basis. More like weekly or monthly. Some absence didn’t really register. I wasn’t done. I guess that was it. I needed, need more time with all of you.” 

“What I can’t determine – “

“Sherlock! You can’t determine?”

He glared, just a bit.

“What I can’t determine is why Mycroft didn’t seem to know, about your…state of nature. He should have at least suspected.”

“Oh,” she said with a smile. “I think he does.”


End file.
